ing. Sartoris turning it again, the initials in the corner make
themselves known, and stand out, legibly and carefully worked, as "R.
A."

Dorian's face changes. He knows the handkerchief only too well now. He
himself had given it to Ruth at Christmas; but how had it come here?
No one had entered the room to-day except himself and--Horace!

Notwithstanding the scene with Ruth the night before, when she had so
unmistakably betrayed her love for Horace, Dorian had never for one
moment suspected that things had gone farther than a mere foolish
girlish liking for a man rather handsomer than the ordinary run of
men. His brother's honor he had not doubted, nor did he deem him
capable of any act calculated to bring misery upon one who had trusted
him.

Now, in spite of himself, a terrible doubt arises, that will not be
suppressed; like a blow conviction falls; and many past actions and
past words crowd to his mind that, at the time of their occurrence,
seemed as mere nothings, but now are "confirmations strong" of the
truth that has just flashed upon him.

Had he lied to him when he told him a few minutes since he had been to
Biddulph's farm and not anywhere in the direction of the Old Mill?
Doubt, having once asserted itself, makes him now distrustful of his
brother's every look and every tone. And the handkerchief! He must
have had it from Ruth herself, and dropped it here inadvertently
before leaving the room. To him the idea that Horace should have
chosen a timid, fragile, gentle girl, like Ruth Annersley, upon whom
to play off the fascinations and wiles taught him by a fashionable
world, is nothing less than despicable. A deep sense of contempt for
the man who, to pass away pleasantly a few dull hours in the country,
would make a target of a woman's heart, fills his mind. He is frowning
heavily, and his face has grown very white Looking up, he becomes
aware that his uncle is watching him narrowly.

To the old man, the altered countenance of his nephew, his pallor and
hesitation, all betoken guilt. Dorian's eyes are still clear and calm,
as usual, but his expression has strangely altered.

"'R. A.,'" remarks Lord Sartoris, slowly. "Why, that might mean Ruth
Annersley."

"It might," returns Dorian, absently. He dares not speak his inmost
thoughts. After all, Horace may not be in the wrong: the girl's own
vanity, or folly, may have led her to believe a few words spoken in
jest to mean more than was ever intended. An